A FOREBODING OF MISFORTUNE. 133 



I felt when I pulled myself together to turn out as the 

 sun was breaking on a misty morning. Dozed I 

 might have, rested I had not, but day had broken, 

 and I felt thankful, for although weary, thirsting for 

 rest, in whatever position I lay, on whatever side 

 I reclined, sleep obstinately refused to come to my 

 eye-lids. True, twice I had to turn out of my warm 

 and snug blankets to see what disturbed my mare and 

 mule, but this was a nightly occurrence ; nevertheless 

 a load seemed settled upon my spirits in fact I had a 

 foreboding of misfortune. But daylight at length 

 came. How blessed is its appearance to the storm- 

 tossed mariner, the invalid on a sick couch, ay, and 

 to the wanderer who is far beyond civilization a 

 sojourner in a land where savage brutes and doubly 

 savage man surround him, craving for the darkness of 

 night to accomplish his destruction ! At the period I 

 speak of I was among the Black Hills, at that time, 

 although not many years since, the favourite retreat of 

 the grizzty bear, and the frequent lurking-place of the 

 young brave, or war party of Indians, craving for an 

 opportunity to shed an enemy's blood. To win honour 

 they had left their tribe, and to return with a scalp was 

 to reap the reward. 



When day became sufficiently advanced, and the 

 mists that wrapped the valley in their impenetrable 

 shroud had rolled up the hill-sides, I sedulously 

 searched around my solitary bivouac to find if there 

 were grounds for my uneasiness. In gradually in- 

 creasing circles I walked around the camp, and until 

 I had gained the distance of a hundred } r ards from 

 it, no impression on the fast disappearing snow, no 

 broken twig, or disturbed rotten limb indicated that 



